In Competition No. 3263, you were invited to submit a short story, written in the style of a cosy mystery novel, with a topical twist.

Subcategories in the wildly popular ‘cosy mystery’ genre include animals, crafts and hobbies, and culinary (Toast Mortem/Butter Off Dead) – all of which elements featured in a top-notch entry. Honourable mentions go to Sylvia Fairley’s Knit-and-Natterers and to Bill Greenwell’s twist on the Wagatha Christie case. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each.

The tranquil Sunday afternoon in Cumberby was disturbed only by cricketing sounds. A huge six narrowly missed Miss Patchworth, cycling to the pillar-box with a poison-pen letter before going to evensong. The ball disappeared into the shrubbery of the Wykeham Arms. Greg Hayley, Uffingham’s long off, was first on the scene, and soon found the ball. And a body. There was a revolver by the man’s side and a piece of paper in his hand.
Cumberby’s umpire bustled up. ‘Blimey! It’s the butler!’
‘Butler?’ asked Greg. ‘Do they still exist?’
‘Up at the Manor. It’s owned by one o’ them Russian Gollygarks. Got more chandeliers than I’ve got spuds.’
‘Is it murder?’ someone said excitedly. There had been no murders in Cumberby since the rector’s untimely bludgeoning three weeks previously.
‘I doubt it,’ said Greg, scanning the paper. ‘Look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘The gas bill.’
Nicholas Hodgson

‘Out you go, Parkin.’ When Ambrose Barnaby entered the shop a plump lady of some sixty summers was shooing a ginger cat from the shelf of home-baked custard tarts.
‘You’ll be Mrs Bloomington, I’ll warrant,’ he said.
‘That I will. And you’ll be that posh snoop from London, I daresay.’
Barnaby smiled. ‘Touché, but the chief constable requested my help.’
‘Get away. He’s dead.’
‘It was his dying wish.’
‘Also the Bishop, and Professor Montgomery, and Lady Fawcett and –‘
‘Quite. A massacre in Buncombe Parva. And no suspect, not even a surly prole who kept himself to himself.’
‘Dearie me, the last one of those left years ago. Mind you, there was the foreign gentleman wanting vodka.’
‘And?’
‘We don’t sell strong drink. I sent him to the Spar.’
The crime scene. Barnaby cursed inwardly. Putin’s fingerprints were all over it. But would justice ever nail him?
Basil Ransome-Davies

It’s the third Wednesday of the month and precisely teatime. Behind the honey-coloured Cotswold stone façade of the rectory at Nether Slaughter gather the Comfy Criminological Club, the ritual tinkle of teacups and a roundelay of delighted thankyous greeting retired restaurateur Felicity’s homemade macaroons as the Reverend Merridew lubriciously informs them a certain Colonel Ambuscade has been fatally poisoned on the eve of the Conservative leadership hustings he was to moderate. Retired teacher and quaint village socialist Geoffrey declares Ambuscade’s moderacy the likely motive. Retired pathologist Dr Fulcrum reads from the autopsy, sourcing the poison to the duodenum of an adder hitherto believed extinct in Gloucestershire. Retired postmistress Miss Trollingham flourishes a list of suspects annotated with gossipy gleanings from her long career. From this, an angst-ridden young interloper from the affordable housing, Trevor, a quondam vivarium owner, is declared Ambuscade’s murderer by the quorate Club. ‘Another macaroon?’ Felicity trills.
Adrian Fry

Gingerly, DCI Chambers took another sip of Lady Guyzance’s homemade herbal sherry. ‘What first raised your suspicions?’ he asked. ‘You see, Maxwell, when one is such a cat-lover as I, one understands their graceful ways – yes, Kitty, I am talking about you, you conceited puss – and when one saw that Miss Sidhu preferred an undulating ergonomic keyboard, one at once suspected….’ ‘That the message “boris go” had been entered by Larry the cat?’ ‘The lack of capitalisation, the positions of the letters on the keyboard, and the short ginger hair under the “b” – clearly not Miss Sidhu’s – immediately conjured a picture of a cat maintaining its balance on a sloping surface.’ ‘Leading to a backstabbing that has shaken the very foundations of power,’ ventured DCI Chambers, bravely knocking back the rest of the sherry. ‘Yes, Maxwell, and, unsuspecting, the murderer was Larry’s catspaw all along.’
Frank Upton

‘A cakeist myself,’ chuckles Mrs Pettifog, having another slice of Battenberg and eating it too, ‘I was naturally first choice to investigate by whose petard Mr Johnson was fatally hoist. The only tea lady in Westminster village, I’ve served all the suspects: the party-pooping civil servants who spurned prime-ministerial birthday cake for warmed-through lasagne at home, the junior ministers whose sole ambition was to set the Tugendhat bandwagon rolling, the bevvy of hungry-eyed, borderline anorexic Arcuri wannabes, the intellectually famished ladies and gentlemen of the press.’ Miss Pettifog pauses, looking about the room to see if the suspects have recognised themselves, amused some haven’t. ‘I know you’re all guilty. You imagined an incriminating needle best hidden in a whole stack of incriminating needles. Don’t worry; I shan’t call the police. I’m just pleased you’ve all enjoyed your high tea this afternoon because I’ve added rather an extraordinary special ingredient…’
Russell Chamberlain

No. 3266: larkin about

To mark the centenary this month of Philip Larkin’s birth, you are invited to re–imagine one of his poems (please specify) in the style of a poet of your choice. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 7 September.